in a museum, cannot touch, very old. I go to look at these works of art and am guarded and told to stand back. Who decides they are so precious and valuable. I don’t agree with all the choices.
Patiently the girl waited, glancing at the picture frame before her. Along came a man, middle-aged and worn. He asked the little girl , “what are you doing?”
Her response was something along the lines of, “Trying to see what this mess is”
The man replied, “Why that my dear, that is artwork.”
the people were on the ground,
“Get down! Nobody move!”
the masked men rushed in and grabbed everything they could… Money, Jewelry, Artworks, Everything.
The lovely thing about artwork is that it can demonstrate fierce, passionate emotions to all humans no matter the true meaning behind it. It could be the quite message of peace or the violent storm of rage.
The day I left home was the day after I left my job. The day I left my job I had awoken to find that to work was to pour my soul away for something which gave no regard for me and, as a result, I none for it. I no longer write.
I can’t help myself – I’m admiring the painting that I’ve done from so long ago, and every glance reveals to me new details that I could brag over. This isn’t just something I’d sketched and then painted colours over, it’s artwork. Actual, literal art. I remind myself that there is a reason I call this painting my masterpiece.
Bob Ross is one of my favorite painters to this day, despite him having passed away a while ago. I can remember watching his tutorials on how to paint on PBS when I was kid—it was so enthralling to see everything come together on those canvases. His artwork is amazing.
There’s certain artwork you can’t unsee. It becomes engraved in your mind for a very long time–maybe forever. The intricate patterns of brushwork and color are like the swirls your thought makes when you think about a lost lover or an old friend.
artwork, for me this word combines something I like, art, with something I often try to avoid, work. And still artworks are special and I wouldn’t want to miss them.
Jonathan lifted up the blanket and immediately began coughing from the abundance of dust. Once the air cleared out, he turned his hazel eyes to the work beneath the cover. La belle ferronnière, meaning The Louvre of a woman, was a 524 year old artwork by Leonardo da Vinci. It was absolutely stunning in design and spent most of it’s time hidden from the world to avoid thieving hands.
She doesn’t get the way her boyfriend can spend an entire day in an art museum, talking about how certain works of art make him feel and break down his normally passive, almost indifferent attitude toward every other aspect of the world. He just has to stop and scribble down a few lines of lyrics that popped into his head after seeing a few scribbles on a canvas. She doesn’t get any of it and it makes her feel stupid and inferior. Instead of bringing it up to him, she quietly excuses herself (not that he’d notice if she were there or not), sits alone at the cafe museum and eats an overpriced salad.
The thoughts that bubble from our cerebelum,
is a plethorart work, teething, awaiting,
the next bubble, we come, we go,
our entire outlook on life, like a microscope atop the galaxy,
is crafted art, artwork that we choose render our disparate lives!
I ordered the pesto stix with a marinara side and could barely see pesto through the mozzarella cheese. Alice ate her slice of pizza and commented on the artwork. “It’s like it has all the attributes of shitty art—airbrush, fluorescence, Daytona scum, but it’s not. When you look closer, there’s something legitimate, like that stenciled leg behind the rainbow—that’s pretty good”. I wondered how the artist would take this critique. We gazed up from our greasy bread and looked around the restaurant, suddenly weary of these being the busgirl’s paintings.
Artwork is an interesting concept. Some people think modern art is a sham. I disagree, once something is named art it can be art. That’s the truth. It won’t be good, there is no gaurantee of that, but it will be art.
Thank you for being my canvass when my sketchbook was left on the kitchen counter next to the unmade coffee and burned eggs I didn’t have time to eat. I love you for the hugs when nothing seemed to be going right and how you would let me write poetry on you in colors that blind us and words too big to fit where they belonged with whipped cream or other delicious treats. You were not only my means of creation but often times my muse as well. And someday, when my name is unknown and I am already in my grave, the entire world will remember that you, and the person you ended up being on your last day were my most valuable piece of artwork.
Shut up. I don’t have time for it. It’s just another one of those days. One of those days where chicken eat feet on their hind-legs. No it’s not a piece of art work it’s hind-legs stuff. Please remeber that.
I am an artist, the canvas is my thought process, my mindscape. Paints, and colors, vibrant and real, stand out, displaying my dreams, my wishes, my nightmares. I dream in color, never black and white, the gallery of my mind is for one person only, VIP access, one at a time, never any more..
Ashley listened to the approving murmurs around her. In groups of two and three, they stood admiring the paintings around the room. She stood alone, next to hers, waiting.
I love it. I miss it. I like touching it, which is always so taboo, but there’s so much to be said in the touch of a thing. So interesting that that is my instinct about something made to be seen to be enjoyed. I wonder if there are artworks out there that engage all of the senses, I should like to experience that, wouldn’t you. I was so proud of my artwork at one point in my life.
lovely. you did this? that’s why we never see you, eh? love the layers of paint. and the splatters. you have a knack. i am so glad you shared these with us. please let me purchase the one over there and this one here.
The artwork hanging on the wall looked out of place for this tiny hovel. The walls, ceilings and floors were covered in a yellow grease that dripped down and appear to cover everything, but the paintings appears clean as if they had just been moved here from someplace else. Where she thought had they been hiding all these years. It did not matter now it was time to let the authorities know she had found the stolen artwork, for the 1979 museum heist in Boston.
Every day is a stroke of the brush. We feel as if we are the paint, or perhaps the brush, leaving some amount of ourselves in each moment. When is life an artwork? Now? Or only looking back from the end, when it obviously looks like something. Tip the brush. Lift it and press it. Turn it upside-down. We are all painting together.
The artwork on the stones used to make up the walls was the most intricate and time consuming. The archaeologists have no idea why this is so, since it is on the reverse side of the stones, and would never be seen by anyone once the walls were erected.
What is there to be said about art? Art is art. Freedom. Expression. Passion. That’s what she thinks anyway. Cass disagrees; “There’s always a meaning to artworks. Look closer.”
The artwork that i see all around me is beautiful.
I can’t stop admiring such work of art because that is my passion.
Watching art move in film, listening to art as the lips move in poetry, hearing the work slip out of artist’s mouths in music; it is all so mysteriously beautiful.
I stared at the artwork on the wall, pondering its meaning. The confusion settled on me as I tried to guess what the artist meant by this. But it was simply a beautiful piece of artwork. Perhaps it didnt have any meaning. Maybe that’s what the artist meant.
I hid in the room surrounded by my artwork. It was my bastion of safety, my walls from the outside world threatening to consume me. Only hours ago, my mind was adrift in the clouds with daydreams and words and sweet hellos. To hear a smile, to feel the elation of a soft sound, that intake of breath, a barely whispered moan and let it waft over me like a spell cast upon the wind for passion… there is nothing more alive than that which can reach across miles and cast a touch from one to another in fingertips to touch once weary hearts and offer rebirth to two once trapped into a magical, bewitching freedom. That truth fights all the noise threatening to push it away, and both remains and re-emerges every time I think of you. Like now.
Artwork is beautiful. Artwork means something different to everyone. Art is expressing feelings, thoughts and dreams on canvas.
Artwork is expensive! Why pay high prices for someone else’s dreams?
They say the artist always suffers for their art, but is it really suffering? Where lies the pain in the creation of something entirely ones own? To watch it start from a simple scratch on paper and grow into something truly magnificent, something that can not be mimicked or duplicated. Something born in the depths of your mind.
the brains of schizophrenic store the better part of their memories unfiltered, resulting in a devastating amount of information constantly flooding the brain in high detail. that precise memory results in parallels being seen and drawn where there [conventionally] are none.
good art is surprising, showing us new details of and adventurous connections between things.
Artwork has saved my life. it brings me out of myself and opens me up to the world. Through artwork, I can express who I am, whatever that may be. I can release my emotions and illustrate my beliefs. I don’t know what I would do without artwork in my life.
in a museum, cannot touch, very old. I go to look at these works of art and am guarded and told to stand back. Who decides they are so precious and valuable. I don’t agree with all the choices.
It’s on the wall
memoirs of the days gone
by those reminders of
days of innocence
finger paints and
Playdough and anything
your youthful mind inspired
??????
Patiently the girl waited, glancing at the picture frame before her. Along came a man, middle-aged and worn. He asked the little girl , “what are you doing?”
Her response was something along the lines of, “Trying to see what this mess is”
The man replied, “Why that my dear, that is artwork.”
the people were on the ground,
“Get down! Nobody move!”
the masked men rushed in and grabbed everything they could… Money, Jewelry, Artworks, Everything.
The lovely thing about artwork is that it can demonstrate fierce, passionate emotions to all humans no matter the true meaning behind it. It could be the quite message of peace or the violent storm of rage.
The day my brother stopped writing he stormed down the stares, precipitated into the room that he was done and slammed the door to hell.
The day I left home was the day after I left my job. The day I left my job I had awoken to find that to work was to pour my soul away for something which gave no regard for me and, as a result, I none for it. I no longer write.
I can’t help myself – I’m admiring the painting that I’ve done from so long ago, and every glance reveals to me new details that I could brag over. This isn’t just something I’d sketched and then painted colours over, it’s artwork. Actual, literal art. I remind myself that there is a reason I call this painting my masterpiece.
Bob Ross is one of my favorite painters to this day, despite him having passed away a while ago. I can remember watching his tutorials on how to paint on PBS when I was kid—it was so enthralling to see everything come together on those canvases. His artwork is amazing.
There’s certain artwork you can’t unsee. It becomes engraved in your mind for a very long time–maybe forever. The intricate patterns of brushwork and color are like the swirls your thought makes when you think about a lost lover or an old friend.
artwork, for me this word combines something I like, art, with something I often try to avoid, work. And still artworks are special and I wouldn’t want to miss them.
Jonathan lifted up the blanket and immediately began coughing from the abundance of dust. Once the air cleared out, he turned his hazel eyes to the work beneath the cover. La belle ferronnière, meaning The Louvre of a woman, was a 524 year old artwork by Leonardo da Vinci. It was absolutely stunning in design and spent most of it’s time hidden from the world to avoid thieving hands.
She doesn’t get art.
She doesn’t get the way her boyfriend can spend an entire day in an art museum, talking about how certain works of art make him feel and break down his normally passive, almost indifferent attitude toward every other aspect of the world. He just has to stop and scribble down a few lines of lyrics that popped into his head after seeing a few scribbles on a canvas. She doesn’t get any of it and it makes her feel stupid and inferior. Instead of bringing it up to him, she quietly excuses herself (not that he’d notice if she were there or not), sits alone at the cafe museum and eats an overpriced salad.
The thoughts that bubble from our cerebelum,
is a plethorart work, teething, awaiting,
the next bubble, we come, we go,
our entire outlook on life, like a microscope atop the galaxy,
is crafted art, artwork that we choose render our disparate lives!
I ordered the pesto stix with a marinara side and could barely see pesto through the mozzarella cheese. Alice ate her slice of pizza and commented on the artwork. “It’s like it has all the attributes of shitty art—airbrush, fluorescence, Daytona scum, but it’s not. When you look closer, there’s something legitimate, like that stenciled leg behind the rainbow—that’s pretty good”. I wondered how the artist would take this critique. We gazed up from our greasy bread and looked around the restaurant, suddenly weary of these being the busgirl’s paintings.
Artwork is an interesting concept. Some people think modern art is a sham. I disagree, once something is named art it can be art. That’s the truth. It won’t be good, there is no gaurantee of that, but it will be art.
Thank you for being my canvass when my sketchbook was left on the kitchen counter next to the unmade coffee and burned eggs I didn’t have time to eat. I love you for the hugs when nothing seemed to be going right and how you would let me write poetry on you in colors that blind us and words too big to fit where they belonged with whipped cream or other delicious treats. You were not only my means of creation but often times my muse as well. And someday, when my name is unknown and I am already in my grave, the entire world will remember that you, and the person you ended up being on your last day were my most valuable piece of artwork.
Shut up. I don’t have time for it. It’s just another one of those days. One of those days where chicken eat feet on their hind-legs. No it’s not a piece of art work it’s hind-legs stuff. Please remeber that.
I am an artist, the canvas is my thought process, my mindscape. Paints, and colors, vibrant and real, stand out, displaying my dreams, my wishes, my nightmares. I dream in color, never black and white, the gallery of my mind is for one person only, VIP access, one at a time, never any more..
The sky fits together like pieces of puzzle. A work of art whose author remains unknown.
Ashley listened to the approving murmurs around her. In groups of two and three, they stood admiring the paintings around the room. She stood alone, next to hers, waiting.
I love it. I miss it. I like touching it, which is always so taboo, but there’s so much to be said in the touch of a thing. So interesting that that is my instinct about something made to be seen to be enjoyed. I wonder if there are artworks out there that engage all of the senses, I should like to experience that, wouldn’t you. I was so proud of my artwork at one point in my life.
She stood with her head on one side, considering the artwork. The line of her body was like an arc of disapproval.
lovely. you did this? that’s why we never see you, eh? love the layers of paint. and the splatters. you have a knack. i am so glad you shared these with us. please let me purchase the one over there and this one here.
The artwork hanging on the wall looked out of place for this tiny hovel. The walls, ceilings and floors were covered in a yellow grease that dripped down and appear to cover everything, but the paintings appears clean as if they had just been moved here from someplace else. Where she thought had they been hiding all these years. It did not matter now it was time to let the authorities know she had found the stolen artwork, for the 1979 museum heist in Boston.
Every day is a stroke of the brush. We feel as if we are the paint, or perhaps the brush, leaving some amount of ourselves in each moment. When is life an artwork? Now? Or only looking back from the end, when it obviously looks like something. Tip the brush. Lift it and press it. Turn it upside-down. We are all painting together.
I would like to learn how to draw so that I can be proud of my artwork and draw something different than my usual trees and back views of elephants
The artwork on the stones used to make up the walls was the most intricate and time consuming. The archaeologists have no idea why this is so, since it is on the reverse side of the stones, and would never be seen by anyone once the walls were erected.
What is there to be said about art? Art is art. Freedom. Expression. Passion. That’s what she thinks anyway. Cass disagrees; “There’s always a meaning to artworks. Look closer.”
The artwork that i see all around me is beautiful.
I can’t stop admiring such work of art because that is my passion.
Watching art move in film, listening to art as the lips move in poetry, hearing the work slip out of artist’s mouths in music; it is all so mysteriously beautiful.
I stared at the artwork on the wall, pondering its meaning. The confusion settled on me as I tried to guess what the artist meant by this. But it was simply a beautiful piece of artwork. Perhaps it didnt have any meaning. Maybe that’s what the artist meant.
What you do at school and put in a portfolio. Expressive.
I hid in the room surrounded by my artwork. It was my bastion of safety, my walls from the outside world threatening to consume me. Only hours ago, my mind was adrift in the clouds with daydreams and words and sweet hellos. To hear a smile, to feel the elation of a soft sound, that intake of breath, a barely whispered moan and let it waft over me like a spell cast upon the wind for passion… there is nothing more alive than that which can reach across miles and cast a touch from one to another in fingertips to touch once weary hearts and offer rebirth to two once trapped into a magical, bewitching freedom. That truth fights all the noise threatening to push it away, and both remains and re-emerges every time I think of you. Like now.
Artwork is beautiful. Artwork means something different to everyone. Art is expressing feelings, thoughts and dreams on canvas.
Artwork is expensive! Why pay high prices for someone else’s dreams?
“I wouldn’t call it artwork.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“I don’t know.” She sipped greedily from her wine glass. “Splatters. Muddy smears. But art? No.”
“Sarah,” I chided. “Artwork is subjective. What you see as muddy smears, another may see as a different image.”
“Well, they’re wrong.”
“Or they see it differently.”
Sarah sneered. “Or they’re stupid.”
“Or you’re a brat,” I unexpectedly retorted.
Walls covered in half-finished artworks of various subjects…
They say the artist always suffers for their art, but is it really suffering? Where lies the pain in the creation of something entirely ones own? To watch it start from a simple scratch on paper and grow into something truly magnificent, something that can not be mimicked or duplicated. Something born in the depths of your mind.
the brains of schizophrenic store the better part of their memories unfiltered, resulting in a devastating amount of information constantly flooding the brain in high detail. that precise memory results in parallels being seen and drawn where there [conventionally] are none.
good art is surprising, showing us new details of and adventurous connections between things.
Artwork has saved my life. it brings me out of myself and opens me up to the world. Through artwork, I can express who I am, whatever that may be. I can release my emotions and illustrate my beliefs. I don’t know what I would do without artwork in my life.